I
The mystery of Denson's death remained a mystery, despite all the police
could do. The coroner's jury returned a verdict of "Murder by some
person or persons unknown"--which, indeed, was all that could be
expected of them; for they had no more before them than the bare fact
that the body, disguised in the clothes of a labourer, had been found on
the steps near the Duke of York's column, just before midnight, by a
police constable. But for the housekeeper's identification, even the
name of the victim would have been unknown. The jury certainly wasted
some time in idle speculation as to the strange triangular mark found on
the forehead, without a speck of evidence to help them; but in the end
they returned their verdict, and went home.
But the police knew a little more than the jury, though that little
rather confused than helped them. They exercised their judgment at the
inquest in withholding all evidence of the theft of diamonds on which
the victim had been engaged, the curious particulars of which I have
already related. In this they followed their usual course in cases where
the evidence withheld could give the jury no help in arriving at their
verdict, and at the same time might easily hamper further investigations
if revealed. For the theft had been frustrated by Martin Hewitt's
exertions, as we have seen, and in any case the thief was now dead and
beyond the reach of human punishment. The one matter now remaining for
the police was inquiry into the murder of this same thief, and the one
object of their exertions the apprehension of the murderer or murderers.
The case, as I have already said, was in the hands of Inspector Plummer,
an intelligent officer and an old friend of Hewitt's. A few days' work
after the inquest yielded Plummer so little result that he called at
Hewitt's office to talk matters over.
"I suppose," Plummer began, "it's no use asking if you've heard anything
more of that matter of Denson's murder?"
Hewitt shook his head. "I haven't heard a word," he said. "If I had, it
would have come on to you at once. But I hope you've had some luck
yourself?"
"Not a scrap; time wasted; and the few off-chance clues I tried have led
nowhere, so that I'm where I was at the start. The thing is quite the
oddest in all my experience. See how we stand. Here's a man, Denson, who
has just pulled off one of the cleverest jewel robberies ever attempted.
He so arranges it that he walks safely off with fifteen thousand pounds'
worth of diamonds, leaving the victim, Samuel, stuck patiently in an
office for an hour or two before he even begins to suspect anything is
wrong, and _then_ unable to set the police after him, for the reasons
you discovered. But this Denson doesn't carry the plunder off
straightway, as he so easily might have done--he conceals it in the very
house where the robbery was committed, taking with him a key by aid of
which he may return and get it. Why? As you explained, it was probably
because he feared somebody--feared being stopped and searched _on the
day of the robbery_--not after, since it was plain he meant to return
for his booty at night. Who could this have been, and why did Denson
fear him? Mystery number one. Then this Denson is found dead that same
night disguised in the clothes of a labourer, in a most conspicuous spot
in London--the last place in the world one would expect a murderer to
select for depositing his victim's body, for it is evidently _not_ the
place where the murder was committed. More, on the forehead there is
this extraordinary impressed mark of a Red Triangle. Now, what can all
that mean? Robbery, perhaps one thinks. But the body isn't robbed! There
are three five-pound notes on it, besides a sovereign or two and some
small change, a watch and chain, keys and all the rest of it. Then one
guesses at the diamonds. Perhaps it was an accomplice in the robbery,
who finds that Denson is about to bolt with the whole lot. But if
there's one thing plain in this amazing business it is that Denson _had_
no accomplice; he did the whole thing alone, as you discovered, and he
needed no help. More than that, if this were the work of an accomplice
why didn't he get the jewels? There were the keys to his hand and he
left them! And would such a person actually go out of his way to put the
body where it must be discovered at once, instead of concealing it till
he could himself get away with the diamonds? Of course not. But there
was no accomplice, and it's useless to labour that farther. All these
arguments apply equally against the theory that it was the work of some
criminal gang. They would have taken all they could get, notes, keys,
diamonds and all, and they wouldn't have been so foolish as to exhibit
the body with that extraordinary mark; criminal gangs are not such fools
as to take unnecessary chances and gratuitously leave tracks behind
them, as you know well enough. Well then, there we stand. So far, do you
see any more in it than I do?"
Hewitt shook his head. "No," he said, "I can't say I do. All the
considerations you have mentioned have already occurred to me. I talked
them over, in fact, with my friend Brett. My connection with the case
ceased, of course, with the discovery of the jewels, and about the
murder I know no more than has been told me. I never saw the body, and
so had no opportunity of picking up any overlooked clue; though
doubtless you have seen to that. I know not a tittle more than you have
just summarised, and on that alone the thing seems mystery pure and
unadulterated."
"All there is beyond that was ascertained by the divisional surgeon on
examination of the body. The man died from strangulation, as you know,
and the natural presumption from that was that the murderer must have
been a powerful man. But the surgeon is of the positive opinion--he is
certain, in fact--that Denson was strangled with an instrument--a
tourniquet."
"A tourniquet?"
"Yes, a surgeon's tourniquet, such as is used to compress a leg or arm
and so stop a flow of blood. He considers the marks unmistakable. Now
that might point to the murderer being a medical man."
"Conjecturally, yes; though, of course, it justifies nothing more than
conjecture."
"Precisely. Well, that was something, but precious little. A tourniquet
is a common thing enough--no more than a band with screw fittings, and
there was nothing to show that the tourniquet used was any different
from a thousand others; and I can see no particular reason why a doctor
should commit a murder like this any more than any other man; in which
the divisional surgeon agreed with me. And doctor or none, that Red
Triangle was altogether unaccounted for. About that, too, by the way,
the divisional surgeon told me a little, but a very useless little. The
mark was not properly dried, owing to its slightly greasy nature, and
although it was almost impossible to remove it wholly, it _was_ possible
to scrape off a little of the ink, or colour. Here is a little of it on
a paper--quite dried now, of course."
Plummer carefully took from his pocket a small folded paper, unfolded
it, and revealed a smaller paper within. On this were two little smears
of a bright red colour. "There--that's the stuff," he said. "The surgeon
examined it, and he reports it to be rather oddly constituted--so as to
bear some affinity of meaning, possibly, to the triangle. For the stuff
is a compound of three substances--animal, vegetable and mineral; there
is a fine vegetable oil, he says, some waxy preparation, certainly of
animal origin, and a mineral--cinnabar: vermilion, in fact. But though
there _may_ be some connection between the triangle and the substances
representing the three natural kingdoms, it gives nothing
practical--nothing to go on."
Martin Hewitt had been closely examining the marks on the paper, and now
he answered, "I'm not so sure of that, though, Plummer. I think at least
that it gives us another conjecture. I should guess that the man you
want, as well as being acquainted with the use of the tourniquet, has at
some time travelled in, or to, China."
"Why?"
"Unless I am wider of the mark than usual, this is the pigment used on
Chinese seals. A Chinaman's seal acts for his signature on all sorts of
documents; it is impressed or printed by hand pressure from a little
engraved stone die, precisely as this triangle seems to have been, and
the ink or colour is almost always red, compounded of vermilion, wax,
and oil of sesamum."
Plummer sat up with a whistle. "Phew! Then it may have been done by a
Chinaman!"
Hewitt shrugged his shoulders. "It's possible," he said; "of course,
though, the sign, the triangle, is not a Chinese character. As a
character, of course it is the Greek _Delta_. But it may be no character
at all. In the signs of the ancient Cabala, the triangle, apex upward as
it was in this case, was the symbol of fire; apex downward, it signified
water."
Plummer patted the side of his head distractedly. "Heavens!" he said,
"don't tell me I'm to search all China, and Greece, and--wherever the
cabalistic pundits come from!"
"Well, no," Hewitt answered with a smile. "I think I should, at any
rate, begin in this country. I rather think you might make a beginning
at Denson. That is what I should do if the case were mine. See if
anything can be ascertained of his previous life--probably under another
name or names. _He_ may have been in China. Yes, certainly, as we stand
at present, I should begin at Denson."
"I think I will," the inspector replied, "though there's precious little
to begin on there. I'd like to have you with me on this job, but, of
course, that's impossible, since it's purely a police matter. But
something, some information, may come your way, and in that case you'll
let me know at once, of course."
"Of course I shall--it's a serious matter, as well as a strange one. I
wish you all luck!"
Plummer departed to grapple with his difficulties, but in fact it was
Hewitt who first heard fresh news of the Red Triangle, and that from a
wholly unexpected quarter.
It was, indeed, only two days after Plummer's visit that Kerrett brought
into Hewitt's private room the card of the Rev. James Potswood, with a
request for a consultation. Mr. Potswood's name was known to Hewitt, as,
indeed, it was to many people, as that of a most devoted clergyman,
rector of a large parish in north-west London, who devoted not only all
his time and personal strength to his work, but also spent every penny
of his private income on his parish. It was not a small income that Mr.
Potswood spent in this unselfish way, for he came of a wealthy family,
and though a good part of his parish was inhabited by well-to-do people,
there was quite enough poverty and distress in the poorer quarters to
cause this excellent man often to regret that his resources were not
even larger. He was a spare active grey-whiskered man of nearly sixty,
with prominent and not very handsome features, though his face was full
of frank and simple kindliness.
"My errand, Mr. Hewitt," he said, "is of a rather vague, not to say
visionary, character, and I doubt if you can help me. But at any rate I
will explain the trouble as well as I can. In the first place, am I
right in supposing that you were in some way professionally engaged in
connection with that extraordinary case of murder a week or so ago--the
case in which a man named Denson was found dead on the steps by the Duke
of York's column?"
"Yes--and no," Hewitt answered. "I was professionally engaged on a
certain matter about which you will not wish me to particularise--since
it is the business of a client--and in course of it I came upon the
other affair."
"Then before I ask what you know of that mysterious event, Mr. Hewitt,
I will tell you my story, so that you may judge whether you are able to
reveal anything, or to do anything. Of course, what I say is in the
strictest confidence."
"Of course."
"I have a parishioner, a Mr. Jacob Mason, of whom I have seen very
little of late years--scarcely anything at all, in fact, till a few days
ago. He is fairly well to do, I believe, living a somewhat retired life
in a house not far from my rectory. For many years he has laboured at
natural science--chemistry in particular--and he has a very excellently
fitted laboratory attached to his house. He is a widower, with no
children of his own, but his orphan niece, a Miss Creswick, lives under
his guardianship. Mr. Mason was never a very regular church-goer, but
years ago I saw much more of him than I have of late. I must be
perfectly frank with you, Mr. Hewitt, if you are to help me, and
therefore I must tell you that we disagreed on points of religion, in
such a way that I found it difficult to maintain my former regard for
Mr. Mason. He had a curiously fantastic mind, and he was constantly
being led to tamper with things that I think are best left alone--what
is called spiritualism, for instance, and that horrible form of modern
superstition which we hear whispers of at times from the Continent--the
alleged devil-propitiation or worship. It was not that he did anything I
thought morally wrong, you understand--except that he dabbled. And he
was always running after some new thing--animal magnetism, or telepathy,
or crystal-gazing, or theosophy, or some one of the score of such things
that have an attraction for a mind of that sort. And it was a
characteristic of each new enthusiasm with him that it prompted him to
try to convert _me_; and that in such terms--terms often applied to the
doctrines of that religion of which I am a humble minister--as I could
in nowise permit in my presence. So that our friendly intercourse,
though not interrupted by any definite breaking off, fell away to almost
nothing. For which reason I was a little surprised to receive a visit
from Mr. Mason on the afternoon of the day on which the newspapers
printed the report of the finding of the body of Denson. You may
remember that only one morning paper mentioned the matter, and that very
briefly; but there were full reports in all the evening papers."
"Yes, the discovery was made very late the previous night."
"So I gathered. Well, I was told that Mr. Mason had been shown into my
study, and there I found him. He was in an extremely nervous and
agitated state, and he had an evening paper in his hand. With scarcely
a preliminary word he burst out, 'Have you seen this in the paper?
This--this murder? There--there's the report.' And he thrust the paper
into my hands.
"I had not seen or heard anything of the matter, in fact, till that
moment, and now he gave me little leisure to read the report. He walked
up and down the room, nervously clasping his hands, sometimes together,
sometimes at his sides, sometimes before him, shaking his head in a
shuddering sort of way, and bursting out once or twice as though the
words were uncontrollable, 'What ought I to do? What _can_ I do?'
"I looked up from the paper, and he went on, 'Have you read it? It's a
murder--a horrid murder. The poor wretched fellow was trying to escape,
but he couldn't. It's a murder!'
"'It certainly seems so,' I said. 'But what--did you know this man,
Denson?'
"'No, of course not,' Mason replied, 'but there it is, plain enough, and
here's another paper with just the same report, but a little shorter.'
He pulled the second paper from his pocket. 'I got what different papers
I could, but these are the two fullest. It's plain enough it's a brutal
murder, isn't it? And the man was a merchant, or an agent, or something,
in Portsmouth Street, but he was found in labourer's clothes--proof that
he feared it and was trying to escape it; but he couldn't--he
couldn't--no! nor anybody. It's awful, awful!'
"'But I don't understand,' I said. 'Won't you sit down?' For Mason
continued to pace distractedly about the room. 'What is it you think
this unfortunate man was trying to escape? And what am I to do in the
matter?'
"He stopped, pressed both hands to his head, and seemed to control
himself by a great effort. 'You must excuse me,' he said. 'I'm a bit run
down lately, and my nerves are all wrong. I'm talking rather wildly,
I'm afraid. I really hardly know why I came to you, except that I
haven't a soul I can talk to about--well, about anything, scarcely.'
"He took a chair, and sat for a little while with his head forward on
his hand and his eyes directed towards the floor. Then he said, in a
musing way, rather as though he was thinking aloud than talking to me,
'You were right, after all, Potswood, and I was a fool to disregard your
warnings. I oughtn't to have dabbled--I should have left those things
alone.'
"I said nothing, thinking it best not to disturb him, but to leave him
free to say what he wanted to say in his own way. He remained quiet for
a minute or two more, and then sat up with an appearance of much greater
composure. 'You mustn't mind me, Potswood,' he said. 'As I've told you,
I'm in a bad state of nerves, and at best I'm an impulsive sort of
person, as you know. I needn't have bothered you like this--I came
rushing round here without thinking, and if the house had been a bit
farther off I should have come to my senses before I reached you. After
all, there's nothing so much to disturb one's-self about, and this
man--this Denson--may very well have deserved his fate. Don't you think
that likely?'
"He added this last question with an involuntary eagerness that scarcely
accorded with the indifferent tone with which he had begun. I answered
guardedly. I said of course nobody could say what the unhappy man's sins
might have been, but that whatever they were they could never justify
the fearful sin of murder. 'And,' I added, 'if you know anything of the
matter, Mason, or have the smallest suspicion as to who is the guilty
person, I'm sure you won't hesitate in your duty.'
"'My duty?' he said. 'Oh yes, of course; my duty. You mean, of course,
that any law-abiding citizen who knows of evidence should bring it out.
Just so. Of course _I_ haven't any evidence--that paper gave me the
first news of the thing.'
"'I think,' I rejoined, 'that anybody who was possessed of even less
than evidence--of any suspicion which might lead to evidence--should go
at once and place the authorities in possession of all he knows or
suspects.'
"'Yes,' he said--very calmly now, though it seemed at cost of a great
effort--'so he should; so he should, no doubt, in any ordinary case. But
sometimes there are difficulties, you know--great difficulties.' He
stopped and looked at me furtively and uneasily. 'A man might fear for
his own safety--he might even know that to say what he knew would be to
condemn himself to sudden death; and more, perhaps, more. Suppose--it
might be, you know--suppose, for instance, a man was placed between the
alternatives of neglecting this duty and of breaking a--well an oath, a
binding oath of a very serious--terrible--character? An oath, we will
say, made previously, without any foreknowledge of the crime?'
"I said that any such oath taken without foreknowledge of the crime
could not have contemplated such an event, and that however wrong the
taking of such an oath might have been in itself, to assist in
concealing such a crime as this murder was infinitely worse--infinitely
worse than taking the oath, and infinitely worse than breaking it.
Though as to the latter, I repeated that any such engagement made
without contemplation or foreknowledge of such a crime would seem to be
void in that respect. I went further--much further. I conjured him to
make no secret of anything he might know, and not to burden his
conscience with complicity--for that was what concealment would amount
to--in such a terrible crime. I added some further exhortations which
I need not repeat now, and presently his assumed calmness departed
utterly, and he became even more agitated than when first he came. He
would say nothing further, however, and in the end he went away, saying
he would 'think over the matter very seriously.'
"It was quite plain to me that my poor friend was suffering acutely from
the burden of some terrible secret, and that in his impulsive way he had
rushed to confide in me at the first shock of the news of this murder,
and that afterwards his courage had failed him. But I conceived it my
duty not to allow such a matter to stand thus. Therefore, giving Mason a
few hours for calm consideration, I called on him in the evening. I was
told that he was not very well and had gone to bed; he had, however,
left a message, in case I should call, to the effect that he would come
and see me in the morning. I waited the whole of that next morning and
the whole of the afternoon, and saw nothing of him. In the evening
urgent parish work took me away, but next morning I called again at
Mason's house and saw him. This time he avoided the subject--tried to
dodge it, in fact. But I was not to be denied, and the result was
another scene of alternate agitation and forced calmness. I will not
weary you, Mr. Hewitt, with useless repetition, but I may say that I
have seen Mason twice since then without bringing him to any definite
resolve. As a matter of fact, I believe that he is restrained from
saying anything further by fear--sheer terror. He has even gone so far
as to deny absolutely that he knows anything of the matter--and then has
contradicted himself a minute afterwards. At last, this morning, I have
brought him a degree further. In the last few days I made it my business
to acquaint myself, as far as possible, with the exact circumstances of
the tragedy, so far as they are known, and in course of my inquiries I
saw the housekeeper of the offices next door--the man who identified the
body as Denson's. He either could not, or would not, tell me very much,
but he _did_ say that you had been working in some way in connection
with the case, and that you knew as much of it as anybody. That gave me
an idea. This morning I told Mason that not only he, but I also had a
duty in respect to this matter, and my duty was to see that nothing in
connection with such a crime as this should be hushed up on any
consideration or for anybody's fancies. I said that if he liked he need
tell me no more, but might take _you_ into consultation professionally,
as your client, allowing me first to see you and to assure you that,
consistently with his own safety, he was anxious to further the ends of
justice. I said that, as your client, your first duty would be to
protect him, that your professional practice would keep your mouth
absolutely sealed, and that you already knew a good deal about the
crime--perhaps more than he suspected. I protested that this seemed to
me the very least he could do, and I warned him that if he refused to do
even this, I should have to consider whether it was consistent with my
character, as a clergyman and a loyal citizen, any longer to conceal the
fact that he was keeping back information that might lead to the
apprehension of the murderer. This frightened him, and between the fear
of the threat and the fear that you might already know more than he
suspected, he authorised me--he was even eager about it--to come and see
you; always, of course, under a pledge of strict professional secrecy."
"So far your account is quite clear, Mr. Potswood," Hewitt said. "You
have done your best, now I must do mine. You wish me to see Mason at
once, no doubt?"
"I arranged to bring you to his house, if you were willing and your
engagements permitted, at three this afternoon. Will that do? I have
been keeping you, I see--it is past one already. Will you lunch with me
at my club?"
"With great pleasure--more especially as I have a few questions to ask
as we go along. Is it far?"
"Just at this end of Pall Mall--we will walk, if you like."
"Tell me now," said Hewitt as they went, "anything you know about Mr.
Mason's habits, family connections, and so forth, as fully and as
minutely as you please. Has he any friends connected with China, for
instance?"
"China? Why, no, I think not; except--but I'll tell you all I know. Mr.
Mason has no family connections, so far as I am aware--at any rate, in
London--except his niece, Miss Creswick. She is within a few months of
twenty-one, a charming girl, but horribly shut in, for Mason has almost
no visitors. Miss Creswick was his sister's daughter; she lost her
mother first and then her father, and was left to the guardianship of
her uncle. He was also trustee under the will, and he has, I believe,
discretion to keep charge of her property, if he thinks fit, till she
reaches the age of twenty-five; though in case of his death she is to
inherit in the ordinary way, on coming of age. She is a very dutiful
and, indeed, an affectionate niece; though I must say he is scarcely
fair to her, keeping her, as he does, so completely secluded from the
society of young people of her own age. Mere thoughtlessness, I think;
he has had no children of his own, his mind is wholly occupied with his
science and his fads, and he makes himself a recluse without a thought
of the girl. And that brings me to what I was about to say at first,
when you asked me if Mr. Mason had any friends connected with China.
There is a young doctor--Lawson is his name--some very distant
connection of the family, I think, who had a professional appointment of
some sort in Shanghai for a year or two, but who is now in London trying
to work up a small practice of his own. If you hadn't mentioned China I
shouldn't have thought of him, since he never goes to the house now--or,
at any rate, is supposed not to go."
"Doesn't go to the house? And why is that?"
"Well, there was a disagreement. What it was I don't quite know, but in
the first place it had some connection with some of Mason's
experiments--something which Lawson declined to help him with for
professional reasons, or else something he declined to do for Lawson, I
don't know which. But the thing went further, for, as a matter of fact,
there was something between the young people--Lawson is only
twenty-eight--and Mason put an end to that. It had been something like a
formal engagement, I think, but in the quarrel--Mason was always
quarrelling with somebody when he _had_ friends, and that's why he has
so few now--in the quarrel things were said that ended in a rupture.
Whether young Lawson was fortune-hunting or not I cannot say, but Mason
certainly accused him of it, and promised to keep back the girl's money
as long as he could. In the meantime Mason declared an end to the
engagement, and poor Helen was broken-hearted; for as I have said, she
is an affectionate girl, and she hadn't a friend to confide in. But I'm
boring you--you don't want to know all these things, surely?"
"On the contrary, I can't possibly know too much, and the particulars
can't possibly be too minute. Nine cases out of ten I bring to an issue
by means of a triviality. You were saying a little while back that there
were almost _no_ visitors at Mr. Mason's house; but you said 'almost,'
and that means there are some. Who are they?"
"Very occasionally--rarely, in fact--there are one or two members of
learned societies with whom he had been in correspondence, or who are
old friends. There is a Professor Hutton and a Dr. Burge, I believe; but
they don't appear once in six months; and there is Mr. Everard Myatt,
who is more frequent. He does not profess to be a great man of science,
but he is interested in chemistry as an amateur, and is, I fancy, a sort
of disciple of Mason's. He has noticed a sad difference in Mason just
lately, and he even called on me yesterday, though I hardly knew him by
sight, in the hope that I would back up his urgent suggestion that
Mason should go off for a change and a rest. Beyond these I don't think
I know of a single visitor. But here we are at the Megatherium."